


tastes like sugar (ashes on my lips)

by Areiton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Pining, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, gross food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 07:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20272471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: “Bananas taste wrong,” he says, contemplatively staring.Tony snorts and finishes his half of the sandwich. “That whole thing tasted wrong, Cap.”





	tastes like sugar (ashes on my lips)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be fluffy and it's definitely not, it is 100% angst and food issues, so please be careful if that's triggering.

The first time Steve goes to a grocery store after he comes out of the ice, he’s looking for coffee. 

He’s been warned about Tony and coffee--or depriving the man of it--and the mansion he puts the Avengers up in while the Tower is being renovated is lacking. 

So he takes himself down to the grocery store with Natasha for company, and promptly has a panic attack, staring at all of the  _ choices.  _

~*~ 

Ma used to lay out their food for the week, and he’d sit by and watch. There was never enough, and it made his stomach ache, when he watched her mumble to herself, plan what they’d eat and how to make too little stretch too long. 

If there was anything he was grateful for, it was that he was too sick to be hungry. The ache in his belly was familiar, a constant companion, but he didn't mind it so much when Ma’s cheeks were pink and her little belly round with food, when Bucky shoved Steve’s slice of bread in his mouth, eyes grateful and a blissed out groan on his lips when he licked the butter off his fingers. 

He was hungry--but he was always hungry and weak and if they weren’t--he didn’t mind it so much. 

~*~ 

The others figure it out pretty quick, Steve and food. 

It’s not--he  _ likes _ food. 

It’s just a complicated relationship. Too many years of not enough during the Depression, too many allergies saying what he couldn’t eat, too many rations in the army. It was a lifetime on scraps slamming into a world of excess and it--

It was difficult, is all. 

They notice. Of course they notice--two super spies, two geniuses. Thor is no slouch in the smarts. They notice. 

They know Steve can’t stand grocery stores. That he flinches away from cream and sugar being dumped into coffee. That he eats everything put on his plate, even if he hates it. That he will wrap and save even the smallest amount of leftovers. That he carries food in his bag. 

That he will step aside and let others eat, before him, instead of him. 

It doesn’t bother him, that they notice. 

What bothers him is--they don’t notice Tony. 

~*~ 

Tony isn’t what Steve expected. 

He’s still loud and flashy and cocky, but he’s also kind. He throws open the doors of his Fifth Avenue mansion for the team, hires people to aid in cleaning and rebuilding after the Chitauri attack. He’s  _ funny _ when he isn’t defensive, brilliant and sassy in a way that makes Steve think of Bucky and  _ ache.  _

He’s also addicted to coffee, grumpy and sweet by turns when sleepy, and disturbingly undernourished. 

~*~ 

The first time he notices is during a team dinner. Tony is missing, dragged away to a SI event or meeting by Pepper. He came back on the tailend of dinner, when they were sitting around sipping drinks, listening to Clint talk about a mission in Budapest while Nat argued with him through her smiles. 

Tony appeared at his shoulder and Steve craned his head back, peered up at him with a welcoming smile. “You hungry? There’s a plate for you in the oven.” 

Tony waved a hand, dismissive, “I ate there.” 

“Going to the workshop?” Steve asks and Tony nods. “I might come down, later.” 

The offer is open--he knows it is. But there’s a stutter of surprise in Tony’s eyes before he nods and smiles, vanishing into the depths of the house to change. 

Pepper appears a few minutes later, heels dangling from one hand, Tony’s dinner in the other. 

He frowns, faintly, as she settles next to Nat,slips into the conversation as she works through the mashed potatoes and chicken and her smile is bright but not the right smile. 

~*~ 

Tony sits next to him, in the dark room while a movie he  _ insisted _ Steve needed to watch plays out on the screen. The team is sleeping around them, passed out after today’s mission, and Tony is drooping into his side, and without thinking, Steve wraps an arm around him, tugs him close. 

And as Tony settles against him, a content sigh on his lips, it occurs to him--the weight is wrong. Too light, bones too sharp, soft skin too thin. 

He swallows the noise of protest in his throat and focuses on the movie and thinks. 

~*~ 

It starts with sandwiches. 

Thin slices of nutty bread from the bag Nat uses for her toast, thin layers of mayo and bananas that make his nose twist in disgust. He frowns at it--it looks smaller than he remembers it being when Mama Barnes made them for him and Bucky to share. 

“Did that sandwich do something to offend you, Capsicle?” 

Steve blinks up at Tony, startled to see him there, and shakes his head. “Feels wrong, eatin’ it by myself.” 

He slices the sandwich in half and Tony makes an inquisitive noise as he pours a cup of coffee. “Used to share ‘em with Bucky, when we were kids. Feels like someone should be eatin’ the other half.” 

Tony gives the sandwich a dubious look, but shrugs and reaches for it, taking a messy bite. The expression on his face is priceless--all startled disgust and embarrassment and Steve takes a bite of his half, just to hide his grin. Makes his own face. 

“Bananas taste wrong,” he says, contemplatively. 

Tony snorts and finishes his half of the sandwich. “That whole thing tasted wrong, Cap.” 

~*~ 

The next day, Steve follows JARVIS prompting into the kitchen. A picnic basket is there, and there’s a note from Tony. 

_ This, freeze pop, is a real sandwich.  _

Inside the basket are three sandwiches. Each wrapped in waxy paper, fragrant fresh bread, with thick cuts of roast beef, sharp yellow cheddar, crisp lettuce and bright red tomatoes.

A small dish of cobbler is nestled in the corner. 

He smiles, and grabs the basket and fresh coffee. 

“You’re sharing with me,” he announces, striding into the workshop and Tony sighs, a long suffering thing, but there’s a smile on his lips that’s even better than the sandwiches. 

~*~ 

He finds Tony in the kitchen. He’s staring at the empty coffee mug, and Steve hesitates, then steps into the room and nudges him. “Nightmare?” 

Tony nods. Steve doesn’t say anything else, just steps up to the fridge. 

They lost a child, during the standoff with AIM. Clint vanished, and Nat disappeared after him. Thor and Bruce are hiding in the mansion, licking their wounds--he thinks Bruce locked himself in containment, just in case the Big Guy made an appearance--and Steve hadn’t had time to sit and process it, really, too caught up with SHIELD and debrief. 

He pours milk and honey into a pot, adds a dollop of whiskey and waits for it to heat. 

When he hands it to Tony, he doesn’t say anything. 

Sometimes, there is nothing to say. 

They sit in silence, drinking their whiskey and milk and pretending the other doesn’t see their tears. 

~*~ 

Steve is sitting in the workshop, sketching, his fingers trembling on the page, when he realizes that he hasn’t heard Tony for a while. He looks around and almost stands to go searching for the other man--he was here, when Steve stumbled in, half awake and shaking from a nightmare--but the door opens and Tony walks in, two mugs held in his hand and his expression shuttered. 

Tony passes one to Steve and he inhales the thick scent of rich chocolate and warm milk and--”Chili powder?” 

“Ana used to make it for me, when I had a bad dream,” Tony says, softly, a sympathetic smile on his lips and Steve swallows around the lump in his throat. 

The dredges of chocolate and cream are still sticky and wet in the bottom of the cup when Steve falls asleep on Tony’s couch. 

~*~ 

There are always snacks in the workshop. He notices about the third time down there, while he’s sketching DUM-E and idly watching Tony doing upgrades with the suit. 

But the bags of blueberries are left forgotten. The trail mix is ignored. DUM-E nudges smoothies and fruit and cookies and pretzels and all of it goes completely untouched. 

The only thing Tony ever touches is his coffee, and even that--it goes cold and forgotten or is swallowed down quick while it’s so hot it leaves him red-faced and gasping. 

Steve doesn’t mention it. He watches, and he worries, but he never mentions it. 

~*~ 

“Tony,” Steve calls, scooting to the side of the couch and beckoning. He’s got a pile of blankets, the soft ones he knows Tony likes and a wide earnest smile Tony struggles to resist. 

Tony hesitates for a second, his gaze flicking toward the hallway, toward his lab. 

“Please,” he says, soft and Tony’s shoulders slump. He huffs a little and comes to settle on the couch next to Steve as a Disney movie begins. 

“You cheat,” he mumbles, and Steve laughs, a pleased flush in his cheeks. He nudges a bowl of kettle corn at Tony, and the other man shakes his head. “C’mon, try it. My ma taught me to make it.” 

Tony scowls at him, and mumbles again, “Cheater.” 

Steve doesn’t care, doesn’t care what Tony mumbles or how he might bend the rules, so long as Tony is warm and soft at his side.

Tony picks at the popcorn for most of the movie, a quiet noise of surprise and pleasure coming from him when he first tastes it. At some point, Tony shifts against him, leaning into Steve’s side, a warm weight that feels all right and all wrong. 

Tony is warm and strong bones, the press of the arc reactor against his arm a slightly warmer, barely there vibration that he can’t manage to ignore. 

Tony is too thin, too light, and the longer the movie plays, the more it bothers him. 

Eventually the kettle corn is gone and Steve slips the bowl away from Tony, setting it on the table. Tony shifts a little, settles more firmly against his side and licks his fingers clean and Steve tries very hard to keep his breathing even. 

When it’s over--when the movie is over and the others wander away--Tony stands. 

Steve catches his wrist, and it stills the other man, that light grasp on a fragile thin wrist, a heartbeat pounding frantic under his skin. 

“Thanks,” Tony says, soft, poised between standing still and running. “For tonight.” 

“Anytime,” Steve says, his voice raspy and raw and Tony--Tony smiles at him, a fleeting thing, sticky fingers squeezing his before he slips away. 

~*~ 

He asks one night when Tony is bent over the engine of his bike, while Steve sketches the bots twirling around him and watches the flex of his shoulders, the slide of his muscles under the thin dirty tank top. 

The sandwich is sitting untouched on the table and he’s comfortable, and he thinks, that’s why. 

“Why don’t you like team dinners?” 

Tony pauses, his shoulders muscles hands stilling before he keeps going, smooth, like there was never any hesitation. “I don’t mind them.” 

“You don’t eat with us,” Steve says, gentle.

“Pizza and greasy Chinese gets old, Cap.” 

It’s light, airy, but there’s a tight sharp edge that makes Steve wonder. 

“That’s not a pizza or Chinese,” he says, nodding at the sandwich. Tony has twisted, is watching him with wide, shadowed eyes. “You never eat, Shellhead,” he says, gently. “I’m worried about you.” 

Tony flushes, a deep, furious red. His face is shuttered and closed, but he snatches up the sandwich and eats it, chewing with defiant, almost grim determination.

Steve watches, his stomach churning and nauseous the entire time. 

Then it’s gone and the glass of water is gone and Tony--Tony is gone too. 

“Dammit,” Steve breathes, heartfelt and furious. 

~*~

He cooks. 

Clint pokes his head in when he’s glaring at bowl of mashed potatoes. They’re beautiful, fluffy and light and creamy, flecked with black pepper and heavy with garlic. 

The chicken is fall off the bone tender, glazed with garlic and brown sugar, so tantalizing and indulgent it makes his stomach turn a little. 

There are tiny baby carrots swimming in butter and targon, bacon wrapped asparagus and fluffy yeast rolls that made him cry they smell so much like the little bakery he and Bucky lived above, once. 

It’s extravagant and mouthwatering and  _ perfect _ and Clint whistles, eyes wide and says, “Damn, Cap, what’s the occasion?”

The elevator door stays, stubbornly, shut. 

“JARVIS,” he says and the AI is quiet.

Tony is still locked away in his workshop then. 

He’s still angry, still pushing Steve away. 

“Nothing,” he says, finally. “No occasion at all.” 

~*~

He tries soup next, a hearty chicken noodle with big chunks of seasoned chicken, long thick noodles, chunks of celery and carrots swimming in the garlicky broth, paired with a dense loaf of bread, nutty and fragrant. 

It’s perfect for the cool fall day, and he doesn’t know if Tony even likes it because he steps outside to take a phone call, and when he steps back into the Mansion, the rich scent of food roils up and slaps him in the face with a million memories. 

In one breath he’s back in his shitty apartment with Bucky, struggling to breath and laughing, Mama Barnes soup hot in front of him, bread cooling on the counter. 

In one breath he back in his childhood bedroom and Ma is leaning over him, a spoon pressed to his lips and her eyes alight with worry. 

He leaves the soup and the bread on the counter and crawls into his bed and he doesn’t cry, exactly, but he shakes, shivering so hard his teeth chatter, until a tap on the door comes and Tony slips into bed with him, wraps around him and holds him. 

They don’t speak. But he smells like coffee and chocolate and engine oil and it helps. 

Holding Tony helps. 

~*~ 

Tony shows up for team dinner a few nights later, but it’s tense, and he skitters away quickly, without really eating. 

Steve glares at his stir fry and chews the carrots that taste wrong and mushy and when Natasha asks if he wants more--he doesn’t he doesn’t he doesn’t--he nods. 

~*~ 

It takes him less than six hours after Colonel Rhodes arrives at the Mansion to put two and two together, and another three days to corner the man by himself to confront him. 

He doesn’t even find him--Rhodes finds him, in the kitchen, studying the array of fruit like it holds the secrets of the universe. 

“Strawberries,” Rhodes says and Steve looks up, curious. He’s studying Steve, his face blank. “He told me you and him got into a fight.”

A flush crawls up his cheeks. “It was--”

“When Tony got to MIT he weight a buck five, soaking wet and fully dressed. He was  _ tiny _ , all bones and skin,” Rhodes says, something flickering in his eyes. “It took me almost two months to figure out he wasn’t just bad at taking care of himself--and you know what I finally did figure out? He  _ hates _ eating in public.” 

“We aren’t public,” Steve says, weakly and Rhodes shrugs. 

“No you aren’t--but Tony isn’t quite comfortable yet. You gotta understand--Tony has lived in the spotlight since he was born. He used to get scolded for eating cookies at his mother’s charity lunches, used to get punished for eating sandwiches in meetings where he could be answering questions, and he was never allowed to eat at parties and galas. Even business dinners, he usually ate two bites before he was answering questions and pitching ideas and caught up in everything that wasn’t eating. It’s what was expected--and that causes some baggage.” 

Steve stares at him, not sure he even believes it because--”That’s---they  _ starved _ him.” 

“They used him,” Rhodey says, “and they didn’t bother taking care of him, while they did. And somewhere along the line--Tony forgot he was allowed to take care of himself.”

Steve is quiet and then, “He eats in front of you.” 

Rhodey smiles, and it’s a little bit smug, a little bit proud. “He trusts me. He’s comfortable.” 

He swallows the hurt that wells up at that and Rhodey’s eyes narrow just a little, and his smile goes even sharper. But all he says is, “Take the strawberries. And a bagel with cream cheese. And be patient with him.” 

~*~ 

Tony stares at the strawberries, delicately sliced and sprinkled with sugar, the bagel with lox and cream cheese, the coffee. 

Steve doesn’t watch him, instead, busies himself settling on the couch and opening his sketchbook--but when he slips out, hours later, all that’s left are a few bites of bagel. 

~*~ 

It doesn’t get easier, really. 

Steve still eats food he hates and panics in the grocery store when Natasha drags him out for 3am ice cream. 

Tony still skirts team dinner and often ignores the food Steve brings to him, and drinks more coffee than can possibly be good for him. 

It doesn’t get easier, really. 

Not all at once. 

~*~ 

He looks up and Tony is laughing, nibbling on a piece of garlic bread, eyes on Thor telling a story. 

~*~ 

He inhales the scent of cloves and his fingers shake and Tony’s hand is steady on his, stirring the mulled cider and leaning into him, warm and soft and solid. 

~*~ 

He blinks and Tony is stealing half his sandwich on a picnic in the Park, and Nat smiles, sphinxlike and satisfied. 

~*~ 

He kisses Tony, and he tastes coffee and pie and his hips are solid and thick under his hands. 

~*~ 

It doesn’t get easier, really. 

Not for either of them. Not at first. 

But slowly. 

~*~ 

One morning, Steve trails his fingers down Tony’s spine, just to see Tony arch and shiver and huff into his pillow. 

He twists and says. “It’s Christmas Eve.” 

Steve hums, a quiet acknowledgement. Tony’s eyes flicker, just a little, and his shoulders tense. 

“When I was growing up--we always had a party Christmas Eve. Big thing--absolutely ridiculous. And Christmas was a photo op--Howard was drunk for most of it. But Christmas Eve morning--Ana would make me French toast and molasses cookies. She’d let me ice them, no matter how messy I got, and always called them beautiful.” 

Steve is still, heart caught in his throat and Tony rolls to look at him. He’s still wearing bruises from Steve’s mouth on his throat, and it makes him want to preen. 

Instead he focuses on that smile, shy and sweet and beautiful. “Wanna make cookies with me?” 

Steve nods and he kisses Tony, and he tastes as sweet as sugar, as rich and indulgent as everything Steve never thought he could have. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Tumblr](http://www.areiton.tumblr.com) about Steve's ass, and Seb's eyes, and Tony's everything.


End file.
